The Scent of Rain by Kristin Billerbeck Page A

on her word even if Jesse wouldn’t. She only hoped that he was a man of honor who would do as he said. She needed that at the moment, if she was ever to believe in love again. She needed to believe a man could keep his promise, no matter how trifling it seemed.
    There was a light tap on the door, and then it opened to reveal the beauty queen of epic proportions whom Daphne had seen in the bathroom earlier. She had to be nearly six feet tall in her heels, but even if she’d been five two, Daphne would have felt looked down upon. The woman looked very French and very elegant in her white, high-waisted nautical pants with a stylish blue rope for a belt. Her look was both impeccable and timeless. She tossed her long, dark tresses as if she knew the cosmic disturbance she’d cause with the action.
    Discouragement gripped Daphne. Not because she wasn’t the belle of the ball—she hadn’t been the belle of her own wedding— but because she wasn’t even the most elegant woman in a small office in Dayton, Ohio. Maybe Arnaud never had wanted her back and had been relieved at the opportunity to let her go.
    â€œKensie Whitman,” the woman said from atop her Barbie waist and under her Kardashian-worthy mane. “You must be Delilah.”
    â€œDaphne,” she corrected. “Daphne Sweeten.”
    â€œIsn’t that sweet? I knew it was something biblical.” Kensie smiled.
    Daphne thought it useless to correct Kensie on Greek mythology versus the Bible. Something told her it would fall on deaf ears.
    Kensie seemed young for her marketing position. Maybe twenty-four at the oldest, Daphne surmised, but the confidence she showed in what must be five-inch stilettos said that Kensie wouldn’t be held back by anything, much less age.
    Daphne couldn’t stop staring. She wished she possessed that kind of spark that gathered attention like flowers gathered bees. A woman like Kensie would never be left at the altar, and that made Daphne feel sorry for herself all over again.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Kensie asked, noticing the bottle on Jesse’s desk.
    Jesse opened a drawer and put the bottle inside. “It’s nothing. A sample from a company wanting to do business with us. You know how they are.”
    Daphne looked to Jesse, and then to Kensie, confused. If Kensie was marketing, wouldn’t she be involved in a discussion about packaging?
    â€œWhat time should I bring Delilah back?”
    â€œDaphne,” she and Jesse said together.
    Daphne didn’t think for a minute that Kensie didn’t know her name. The woman didn’t get to be marketing products by forgetting people’s names.
    â€œHave her back by noon,” Jesse said, barely acknowledging Kensie’s presence. “Do you like Italian food, Daphne?”
    â€œYou’re not going to take her to the Spaghetti Warehouse!
    Jesse! That’s where he took me when I started. Now he knows better than to take me to that dump.”
    â€œI like Italian food,” Daphne murmured.
    â€œJesse, look at her suit. She does not want to sit in a vinyl booth in that suit.” She turned toward Daphne. “St. John, right?”
    â€œYes,” Daphne said, not adding that it was from her trousseau and she’d never owned anything like it before and probably never would again. It was the one and only thing she owned with a label that she hadn’t picked up at a Paris flea market. Working in chemistry, one rarely invested in clothing for work. And now that she’d learned that formulation at Gibraltar was done by hand, she never would again.
    Jesse looked bruised.
    â€œI’m fine, really,” Daphne said. “I like comfortable restaurants. We don’t even have to do lunch today if you’re busy. You can just let me read over the product information on what you want me to start working on. I’m very much a self-starter.”
    There she was again, making excuses